Hometime
by bibi4
Summary: CJ takes a look at her life


Author: Bibi  
  
Email: gorgeousbibi@h...  
  
Title: Hometime  
  
Characters: CJ  
  
Rating: Fun for all the family.  
  
Disclaimer: WB owns everything. I can't make money any other way;  
  
why  
  
the heck would this be the exception?  
  
Spoilers: Nope.  
  
Feedback: Yes please, good & bad.  
  
Bibi's Note: This is my first ever fic, so blame Angie for making  
  
me  
  
write it. Really, big thanks to Angie for helping me so so much.  
  
And  
  
Chris for thinking 'that giant woman' is cool. Erm, liked the title  
  
at four this morning, but now I'm not so sure. Ho hum.  
  
  
  
  
  
Thrusting $20 into the driver's hand, CJ emerged from the cab,  
  
looking and feeling old. As she walked up the stone steps to her  
  
apartment, clutching the box of take-out, her mood did not improve-  
  
it was nearly midnight and she felt that she'd achieved nothing.  
  
  
  
CJ replayed her day in her head:  
  
The President had ridden his bicycle into a tree, making the  
  
administration a laughing stock. Cubans were living such awful  
  
lives  
  
that they'd risk everything to reach `the land of the  
  
free'- the land  
  
of the free where millions of Americans were illiterate and living  
  
below the poverty level. Unemployment was rising, while at the same  
  
time managers of big companies gave themselves pay rises for  
  
ruining  
  
yet more of their planet. The rich got richer and the poor got  
  
poorer.  
  
  
  
There was nothing she had done to end any of it, make any of it  
  
better. She had just sat in a meeting and not managed to say a  
  
word.  
  
  
  
Her apartment, as always, was cold and empty. She looked around the  
  
all-too-familiar scene. No one was there to welcome her and the  
  
unblinking red light on her answering machine told her there were  
  
no  
  
messages: no one had called all day. There was just the TV, the  
  
couch  
  
and her now tepid Chinese take-away.  
  
  
  
CJ sat down at the couch, put her feet up on the coffee table and  
  
began to eat her food. She'd read somewhere, perhaps a Glamour  
  
magazine in a dentist's waiting room, that eating after eight in  
  
the  
  
evening could make you fat. She snorted a little at the thought.  
  
Managing to find time to eat was trouble enough, her hectic  
  
schedule  
  
would never allow her to consume enough to outweigh the energy  
  
expended through running around from briefing to meeting for  
  
fourteen  
  
or more hours a day. All women worry about their weight, she  
  
thought.  
  
Not her. Perhaps it showed that she was something less than a  
  
woman,  
  
perhaps it showed that she hadn't quite the same inner-workings.  
  
She  
  
knew that the men at work considered her one of them, forgot that  
  
she  
  
wasn't in possession of the same Y chromosome and while she knew  
  
she  
  
wanted to feel feminine, she had come to believe that this would  
  
lessen her power and her standing in their eyes. So, she wore her  
  
hair cut short and wore plain, sombre suits, ignoring fashion to  
  
appear efficient: to appear more masculine.  
  
  
  
Glancing around the room, CJ saw, not for the first time, how empty  
  
her house really was. On the mantelpiece were pictures of a father  
  
who was rapidly losing his mind; brothers she saw once a year if  
  
she  
  
was lucky, and nieces and nephews who didn't recognise her on the  
  
few  
  
occasions that they did meet. She made a mental note to phone her  
  
father, to let him know that she still loved him and thought about  
  
him. She'd all but severed her ties with her family and knew that  
  
she  
  
needed to make amends for that.  
  
  
  
She rose from the couch and walked slowly to the drinks cabinet.  
  
She  
  
opened the lacquered doors and removed a bottle, beginning to pour  
  
herself a large measure of gin. She stopped when she noticed the  
  
unopened bottle of scotch, nestling at he back of the cabinet  
  
between  
  
the vodka and the polished mahogany. She picked it up, feeling its  
  
weight in her hand. She'd bought it for Toby, hoping he'd  
  
come to her  
  
house more often and talk, exchange ideas about the world and how  
  
they were going to fix it, just as they used to do in college, and  
  
even after, when they were on the campaign trail. But he'd never  
  
drunk a drop. Since they'd been in the White House, he'd been  
  
far to  
  
busy to spend time with his old friend, preferring to stay at the  
  
office late or read memos at home- too busy to relax with her. Time  
  
spent with friends was time not spent arguing with Republicans or  
  
writing eloquent speeches to make the President's message clear  
  
to  
  
the American people; working at becoming the Voice of the President  
  
  
  
Sighing, she carefully poured her gin back into its turquoise  
  
bottle,  
  
catching the colorless drop that slid down the neck and sucking it  
  
from her finger, and then went to the kitchenette to rinse out her  
  
glass. Standing her glass on a coaster, she poured out two fingers  
  
worth of the tawny whiskey. She inhaled the scent deeply, the smell  
  
reminding her of smoky bars and the cheap motel rooms that they'd  
  
stayed up late in, discussing what they were going to do to make a  
  
difference to people's lives if they ever made it to Pennsylvania  
  
Avenue.  
  
  
  
Sipping on the whisky, its warmth spreading through her chest, she  
  
realized that it wasn't Toby she was pining for; she was pining  
  
for  
  
the girl she had once been. She was pining for the girl with her  
  
whole life ahead of her, who thought a career and family would be  
  
so  
  
easy to combine. The girl with a thousand shining tomorrows, each  
  
of  
  
them filled with the laughter and love of her husband and children,  
  
as well as the admiration and respect of her colleagues. She knew  
  
that now it was too late to be all she had wanted to be. She would  
  
never cook Thanksgiving dinner for her impatient husband and  
  
children. A sick child in need of comfort would never call  
  
her `Mommy'. Heirlooms, passed on for generations came to a  
  
dead-end  
  
with her. She was a cul-de-sac for her grandmother's pearls and  
  
for  
  
her mother's diamond bracelet.  
  
  
  
CJ sighed and rested her head on her hands, rubbing her temples  
  
with  
  
long, slender fingers. It was time to let go of those dreams, and  
  
to  
  
look forward rather than back. She had to make new goals for  
  
herself  
  
and work out how to achieve fulfilment without those things she'd  
  
always dreamed of.  
  
She drained her glass in one measured movement, and stood up to go  
  
to  
  
bed. Tomorrow, she'd make a difference. 


End file.
